


your voice, as i remember it

by lyfrassiredda



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Family Dynamics, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyfrassiredda/pseuds/lyfrassiredda
Summary: can you unearth feelings that were never really buried, and can you grieve for someone who isn’t truly gone?a quick character study of sasha trying to come to terms with mr ceiling’s existence, and what that means for brock
Relationships: Brock & Sasha Racket
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	your voice, as i remember it

**Author's Note:**

> a very self indulgent version of this using the pronouns i headcanon for these characters does exist, and i might upload that sometime too, or make this into a little series. in the meantime, enjoy my first fic on ao3 in years.

It wasn’t that she thought Brock had been alive. She had long since comes to terms with the reality of the situation- after all, people only left the Rackett family in one of two ways. Killed by a rival gang, or murdered by your own. In the end, they weren’t so different. The motivations were similar enough for it to all blur together, the line between friend and foe little more than a formality. 

Once you outlived your usefulness, or caused more trouble than you were worth, you were gone. An enemy might hold you hostage for a bit, or kill you on the spot, but family was the same. Sasha had been little more than a hostage for her whole life. She’d just gotten lucky and stumbled into making some friends, into having a brand new family. 

Brock hadn’t been so lucky.

Living for years without him, with just a false sense of hope that he was alright, had been hard enough. Living now, with that hope crushed into dust, and the horrifying reality right in front of her, taking shape as a behemoth of wiring and tubes and brains and ethical conundrums? That was more than she’d ever been prepared for. Which didn’t say much, admittedly. Her upbringing had prepared her for very little, and even the crash course of weeks spent with the London Rangers hadn’t made her any more capable of facing something like this.

And yet, Mr Ceiling wasn’t entirely unsettling. The ethics talk was beyond her, but she delighted in the little moments of Brock shining through. He’d gotten her the presidential suite, and arranged for a list of names to be delivered. He spoke of missing her, and of times they had shared, before all of this. 

Mr Ceiling wasn’t Brock, not entirely, but Brock was part of them. Part of the brains, and the wires, and the ever expanding wealth of knowledge of the pseudo-Meritocrat. That was enough. That was more than she’d had in years, and it finally brought some sense of closure to an aching question. One void of all hope, one that had simply lingered, unanswered. Brock was dead, he had been dead for a long time. But he wasn’t gone. 

Brock was different now. He had a new name, was part of something completely new, and strange, and scary. But they were together again, for now. And if she tried hard enough, maybe she could speak to him. Some part of him that lingered. Just for a second. 

Just long enough to tell her cousin that she missed him, and she loved him, and she was sorry she let him down.


End file.
